


Like Shattered Glass

by OhTigridia



Series: Gekkagumi Week [1]
Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Past Memories, Warning for references to suicide & suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27867322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhTigridia/pseuds/OhTigridia
Summary: This sudden lifetime, dripping through his fingers like the sand of an hourglass. It sparks a question that Hisoka cannot answer yet.Who is he supposed to be now?Written for Gekkagumi Week Day 1Prompts: December, Identity
Relationships: August & Mikage Hisoka & Utsuki Chikage
Series: Gekkagumi Week [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044090
Kudos: 14





	Like Shattered Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Hisoka, I wrote you some more sub-par angst. 
> 
> My idea for this piece was to explore the different phases of Hisoka’s life, and his different identities over time.

The day had been long. Much longer than any day Hisoka can recall prior. It feels like an armistice, or someone’s funeral. A ceasefire in the wake of an explosion.

So much pain has been recalled from the broken cracks of his mind. Fragmented memories, all laid out in front of him, forming a messy portrait of a life once forgotten.

Hisoka knows exactly who he is.

_And yet he doesn’t know at all._

So much had happened, and now everything has fizzled out into a silence. Hisoka is left alone with a heavy burden in his head. _So much to carry._

Maybe enough for him and the rest of winter to carry in time, but they haven’t seen what Hisoka has seen. They have no idea what he’s done, nor the weight of everything he’s lost. 

It’s just so heavy, and in this exact, silent moment, he feels it’s weight too much.

Sitting on the floor, his body feels weird in front of the mirror. The pound of flesh that makes a person, drifting between Hisoka and December. 

The lights are out, just seeping moonlight illuminates him, and he stares at his reflection, trying helplessly to gather himself from within it.

He wonders how much he has changed since Chikage’s arrival. How much they’d changed each other, in one, single impact.

_The sound of shattering glass, and the deep blue liquid that pooled on the floor of their abandoned home._

With that, Hisoka had saved him from his isolation. 

How broken he’d looked, when he stared into his eyes with a sudden horror. He’d known Chikage since they were children, and yet a few weeks all the same. Slowly. Remembering who he was to him. Understanding the terrifying threats that he made, and how he must save him from the volatile wrath of revenge.

With misguided eyes, he recalled Hisoka from his amnesia drenched head. Suddenly a man with deep wounds and a past. A family. A life.

Forgotten.

And suddenly - all there.

It’s a strange feeling. In gathering his memory, he has only become more lost.

There’s so many things here now. People that had never been there until suddenly they were. So many different people _he_ had been, when previously he was empty, with nothing but a name that lacked soul.

This sudden lifetime, dripping through his fingers like the sand of an hourglass. It sparks a question that Hisoka cannot answer yet.  
  


_Who is he supposed to be now?_

—

Once a child with no name walked along cobbled streets. Whatever shoes he had once were lost a long time ago, and it’s freezing his toes without them. They hurt. They’re so cold. Maybe it’s true that he’ll have to cut his feet off, and then he’d definitely die, when he can’t run and steal food for himself. 

Maybe that would be better? He didn’t know. Was death scary? That’s not what most boys his age were worried about. They had places to be that held warmth, and this boy did not. 

_All he wanted was to be warm for once._

The man at the church at the bottom of the street had told him of angels once. That they were kind, and had a duty to protect people. He told him that angels were what you became after you finally passed away.

Maybe the boy wanted to meet an angel. Maybe he wanted to be one. His body adorned with white cloth, fellow angels by his side, looking down at the world, and knowing they were above such suffering.

_Mm…_ Maybe the boy wanted to meet an angel. 

  
  


“Are you ok?” Asked a young man. Maybe the closest thing to an angel that walked among humanity. A shimmering halo of pale hair draped along his face, his eyes wide, the colour of purple sunset in summer. He held the hand of another boy, both peeking out over thick coats.

He looked at him, head tilted, legs crouched down to the snow. A smile that was friendly, but laced with concern.

“If you stay here like this, you’re going to die,” The strange man said, and the boy knew he was right.

“...I don’t have anywhere to go….”

Of course not, wasn’t it obvious? Why would you warn a homeless boy of such things. Was it not obvious that the boy had already accepted that? 

“I’ll introduce you to the Organization. Why don’t you come live with us?” The young man asked, holding out a gloved hand to him.

_Strange._

The boy didn’t know what to say, just stared at that unusual man. This guy had a home. His cheeks were round and rosy, his body all bundled up behind layers. People don’t usually take pity on kids like him, so why did this guy? Especially when he had a warm home, why would he offer it up to him? Maybe he was stupid, taking such a thing for granted, though it didn’t seem like such a terrible offer until the other chimed in.

“Don’t bother with him. He’s probably useless; he’ll just get in our way.”

The other guy looked more like the boy’s age. He scowled in a way that was cross and tough. 

_Mean_. Scary like the older kids who were stronger than him. He shook his head on instinct, wishing them away.

“...I won’t go.”

He didn’t want to be involved with such cruel boys.

“See? Let’s leave him alone.”

“But…”

The pale haired man looked hesitant, a frown falling on his lips as his coat was tugged by the child.

“He doesn’t want to. There’s nothing you can do,” The boy insisted, causing the older to sigh, and resign. 

Still he smiled for a moment as he said, “Find me if you ever feel like joining us. We usually hang out around the station,” Though the younger still complained, stating how the boy would likely be dead by the next time they met.

—

And yet he didn’t. He never died, despite the thousands of occasions he thought he surely would.

The Hisoka who sits here today is proof enough of that. 

He stares at his face in the mirror, trying to pluck more static coated memories from his head. Things that were there to be accessed if he tried hard enough, and yet felt strangely foreign. 

_Distant_.

He’s trying to learn of himself. Find every little detail, from the nameless boy, to December, whilst also pushing them into the past. Accepting he must learn of things he loved and are forever lost. Uncover those secrets of the past, only to accept he’ll never be able to see them again. 

Because as much as he comes to know him, he isn’t December anymore. He never will be again.

He is Hisoka Mikage. A life of 26 years is excavated.

_Fossilised_.

His childhood. Adolescence and first years of adulthood. His plight in growing from homelessness, to an odd whirlpool of espionage life.

He sits in front of this mirror. Hisoka Mikage, and looks for the child he did once forget.

He wants to see clearly, that mirror image of himself.

—

“December, sit here whilst your hair is still drying off,” August said, and gestured to a stool by their makeshift fireplace. “It’ll be easier to deal with whilst it’s still damp, especially since it’s really quite long and matted... Plus, it’s warm and I don’t want you catching a cold from damp hair!”

December did as he was told. Sat by the fire, watching the embers dance with the same awe as he did the first time. December had never seen fire up close before, and had never worn jumpers so large on him that they swallowed his body in a woollen disguise.

_Cozy._

“You still like watching the fire, huh?” August asked as he pushed a comb through his hair. “It’s pretty right? Just don’t touch it, ok?” He laughed, and December nodded.

“I like it here…” December mumbled, snuggling deeper into the heavy wool of his jumper. “It’s warm.”

“Eheh, well, I’m glad you like it,” August smiled a little sheepish, that great big smile like the warmth of summer sun.

That was all December really wanted. 

_Warmth._

A comfortable silence settled between them. December watching August work the brush in the mirror. He’d cringe a little when it got to a particularly troublesome knot, though August tried his best to be as gentle as he could. 

His hair fell onto the floor as it was cut. Piles of white, now shampooed it glistened in the honey light, no longer murky and matted from street life. 

He’d seen his reflection in shop mirrors, distorted by the glass. Nameless. Homeless. An identity and appearance were not a priority to the half-dead boy, but maybe to December, who giggled a little as more hair was cut away from his shoulders.

“All done!” August announced, a proud grin as they watched their reflection in the mirror.

His face, still thinner back then from malnutrition, but he had eyes that were bright in a shade of peridot. He could see them clearer now the hair was cut. The hopeful glimmer residing within them.

“You look so nice and neat now, December!”

—-

_December…_

He thinks of the hallowed trees on the outskirts of his hometown. Of snow that falls in silence, swallowing all sound. He thinks of the wind, slicing through childish skin and bone. The cold that kills slowly. 

Quietly.

_December…._

He thinks of logs on a fire, in a building so empty the very crackles send an echo. He thinks of spice. Unpleasant. Homely. Ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon. How festive treats can taste spicy and sweet at the same time. How friends - family - share alcohol at Christmas, or after surviving another night of ruthless espionage.

Unconventional.

December.

The very consistent alias he was supposed to be. The person who was killed that night along with his most precious person, who held his face while he cried, and begged him to forget.

_Forget_. But Hisoka is still learning. He’s learning so much that it aches. It aches to defy the dying wishes of someone so precious, but he wants to know everything of the person he used to be. He wants to remember their laughing faces, their faces when they cried in secret to each other, their surprised faces from Christmas gifts, and tasting their favourite foods.

_Was he really so treacherous to want to hold on to such expressions?_

—

“December, what do you think of these?” August asked, pulling an assortment of marshmallows from the box.

“They’re stock for the sweet shop when it opens, but it never hurts to have a taste test first, huh?” He grinned, opening a bag that filled the air with the thick scent of sugar. 

He placed one of the marshmallows into his own mouth, before handing the rest to December. He grinned at him with his brightly exaggerated immaturity, bounding around the stock, too excited about this new uncover job.

“Here April,” August said, reaching back into a different box, and plucking something else from it. 

“Chilli chocolate! Will you give it a taste?” He asked, turning to place the bar in April’s hands.

“You know I don’t like chocolate,” April muttered, examining the offending item he had been handed.

“Ah, but dark chocolate is more bitter than it is sweet,” August defended, looking at April expectantly, “I heard it goes well with spice you see, maybe you’ll like it if you give it a go!”

April sighed, ripping off the foil a little hesitantly, and December watched him with an impish grin. August always proved difficult to say no to, and it was funny to watch April’s reaction to even the slightest of sweet tastes.

As he broke off a piece of chocolate and placed it in his mouth, August watched him expectantly.

“So, what’s your verdict?”

“...Still terrible,” April complained, scrunching his face in disgust. “It’s impossible to mix sweet and spicy, no matter how many times you try.”

“Nope, I’m sure it is possible!.. I’ll just have to keep searching, won’t I?”

“You fit right into your role of Misha then, if you won’t give up on persuading me to like sweets…”

“I think you’re right about that,” August said with a bright echo of laughter. He placed his hands on his hips, as if he was determined.

“I just hope that you two will be enthusiastic when you have to cover the shop for me!”

—

Names weren’t made to last. Identities were carefully crafted and built to be thrown away. 

August never wanted to let go of Misha, that much was obvious. December had never seen August be more _August,_ in an undercover role before. It was nice for him to be able to laugh, learn about the normal children the trio had never been. He’d talk so whimsically, about how he hoped they’d get to live long lives. He wanted to inspire them to achieve their potential, living out their dreams as normal people.

He looked so terribly sad when they had to pack up and leave that place, speaking about how he felt guilty to abandon it, when he knew a lot of the kids there came from unhappy lives, and looked forward to being able to buy sweets there on the weekends.

Still. Everything was impermanent, he must have known that. 

Hisoka thinks about it. The impermanence of even his name, Mikage Hisoka. How it was bestowed upon him in that place as a temporary name for Japan. Another place they were never meant to stay. It wasn’t supposed to be forever, he was supposed to only be Mikage Hisoka for a while. 

He was supposed to be only, truly December, defined only by his family ties, and the role of the organisation.

—-

December sat with his face pressed against the wall of the airplane, watching the blue and white sky pass beneath them. 

They’d been flying for too long, December thought. It really was a bad flight when _he_ woke up from a nap feeling restless. 

There was a feeling in his chest that he couldn’t quite identify. A heavy, hollow feeling. One that resonated with a dullness as he watched the sky, and felt the slight turbulence of the aircraft.

“Are we nearly there yet?...” December mumbled. He pressed his head into his hands, as if he was still that petulant child who had flown for the first time.

“Definitely not,” April replied flatly. “Be patient.”

“Ah, yeah… I think there’s still a few hours left, sorry...” August said before December could complain of April’s tone. His voice was lighter, as he gazed down at December momentarily, lips pressing into a smile that was more slight than usual.

“The sky up here is nice, isn’t it?” August commented offhandedly, as his eyes drifted over to the window. December caught note of his hands interlocking, turning the ring on his thumb like he did when he was lost in his thoughts.

“Yeah,” December agreed quietly. “...What’s up with you?...”

“Oh,” August smiled gently again, swallowing as if he didn’t want to speak of it. “It’s nothing, just being silly.”

“Silly?” December asked, looking up at him.

August nodded, quiet, “That’s all. Don’t worry about me.”

December was never sure what exactly to say. It was complicated - to understand other people’s emotions. Why August would look as if he wasn’t ok at all, and yet would continue to smile, and avert people’s attention from it. He didn’t quite understand it at all, no matter how much he wished he did, so he just pressed his head against his arm, leaning against his weight. 

It was so normal. Nothing really changed, even if they felt like it did. December leant against August, who placed his hand on his head, and stroked through the layers of his hair. _The same as it always was._

Wasn’t that what December was afraid of? Change? That one day it wouldn’t be just like this?

“What do you think it would be like, if we could fly out anywhere in the world? Just us three?” August asked out of nowhere.

“...What is this about?” April replied warily.

“Just a hypothetical question!...”

“...Though, it would be nice to dream, right?” he added quietly. That same, sorry smile, so encaptured by guilt.

—

That smile burns so deep into Hisoka’s memory. Eyebrows furrowed and lips slightly up - the gentle, sorrowful look in his eyes.

It was the expression of contempt of himself, a thing that he tried and failed to hide. 

His eyes were always staring out, watching the horizon as if he was looking for some dream that was so far from his reach.

—

The night was too quiet. Permeating silence, wide open space that echoed nothingness. The initial fleet of shooters were behind them, chasing like dogs, and yet, out in the snow it was deeply quiet.

Silent. So quiet aside from the waves below, and his breath, barely above a whisper.

Still. As his bloodied hands press against his face. Slow and calloused as they wiped December’s tears away, gentle like they were still young and naive. 

Cold. His hands weren’t supposed to feel so icy. They were supposed to be warm, everything about him, so incomprehensibly warm, that when it was stolen, it felt so much more unfair...

Yet the blood that seeped between December’s fingers was so hot it felt like burning. 

He never wanted to let go of him, one hand still squeezed into August’s, holding down his wound in an effort that was truly futile. The other scrambled desperately with the necklace.

_Desperate._

_Throw it all away._

But the world spun around his head as soon as the liquid was gone.

The acrid scent of bloodied death fading from his senses, the sound of his voice dizzying off, far, far away.

No…

Don’t… Go...

  
  


_“Live.”_

  
  


And there it was. The moon, and the ocean below.

—

_Live….._

_“Forget about me and the Organization, and live a new life…”_

It’s not fair. It’s so, horribly unfair.

All August wanted was life of their own, and in the end, he had sacrificed himself to give that wish to his family alone. 

Hisoka must live it for him, but it crushes him under a heavy pressure. Hisoka grips his head, feeling hot tears sting his eyes. It’s a deep, corrosive ache in his head, that leaves him disoriented and overwhelmed.

Mikage Hisoka was never a role he was supposed to settle into, yet here he is. He has to live with this. He has to accept it and throw his old memories away, and yet he doesn’t know how he is supposed to bear this guilt.

There’s someone else a few rooms down who breathes and mourns too. The two, final survivors of that night. The pair left over from a three, and maybe in time they can be a family again, but not now. 

Everything is so broken in the end, isn’t it?

December’s memory - shattered like the glass of empty poison replaced to save his life.

April’s morals - so broken and deluded that Hisoka is afraid of who will be left when the initial shock passes away.

He squeezes his arms around his legs, burying his head into his knees. He wishes if he squeezes his eyes closed hard enough, and wails loud enough, some bright and concerned voice will come rushing through the door. He’ll pull him into his arms and smooth him, he’ll tell him how “Everything will turn out ok in the end!”

  
  


And yet no one comes.


End file.
